


Simple Pleasures, Simple Risks

by LoveChilde



Category: Criminal Minds, Leverage
Genre: All comfort no hurt, Background Relationships, Beer, Food, Other, a night in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveChilde/pseuds/LoveChilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a consult in Portland, Hotch walks into a microbrewery and meets Eliot Spencer. They hit it off really well, to their mutual surprise. Not slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Pleasures, Simple Risks

**Author's Note:**

> For the IntoaBar challenge. Unbeta'ed at the moment. Not slash, but undertones and references to background relationships are very much there.

_Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness_  
But it's better than drinkin' alone.  
\- Piano Man, Billy Joel

It’s late on a chilly night, Parker and Hardison are away doing prep-work for a case, and there’s an FBI agent sitting at Eliot’s bar. He’s alone, and looks tired, and he isn’t a local: Eliot makes a point of keeping track of the Portland field office, just in case; but everything about him screams Federal Agent. 

There are very few other patrons around, and it’s always a good idea to stay on the good side of the Fed who might be checking out your place even if he looks like he’s just pulled an 80-hour week, so Eliot grabs a bottle and a menu and goes over to him.

It’s late on a chilly night, Hotch is alone in Portland for a consult after an 80-hour week, and he’s sitting at a bar across from a predator. At best, maybe a former soldier, Special Forces of Hotch has to guess, but definitely a hunter, in his home environment. He honestly doesn’t know what brought him to this bar, except that going back to a cheap motel room sounds even less appealing than staying at the Portland field office, and his local liaison insisted they all needed a break. He walked aimlessly for a while until the need for food and possibly a beer made itself known, right outside the Brewhouse. Maybe it was the smell drifting out to the street that made him come in, maybe it was just loneliness.

In any case, the bar is almost empty, and the bartender who’s almost definitely taken people’s lives before puts a menu and an opened bottle in front of Hotch. 

“I’ll start with a cliche- long day?”

The thing about cliches is, they work, and Eliot manages to draw out a smile from the Fed, shining briefly on a face that doesn’t look like it gets much practice smiling. 

“It was, actually,” the man inspects the bottle curiously but doesn’t pick it up yet, studying alternately the menu and Eliot himself. “What’s today’s special?”

“It _was_ tuna tartar, but I’m afraid we’re all out.” The tartar was extra good today, and went fast. “I can recommend the chowder, though. Got the clams fresh this morning from Seattle.” Plus it’d go well with the pale, sharp micro-brewed lager he’d just opened.

“Sure, chowder’s fine.” 

The agent looks like he’s too tired to think very hard about food, and against all reason, Eliot thinks he might like the guy, if they had a chance to talk. And now ain’t a bad chance.

“Coming right up.”

The lager is crisp and sharp, slightly herbal, with a label Hotch doesn’t recognize, but it’s exactly what he needs after the day he’s had. The bar is cosy and warm, a pleasure compared to the moist chill outside, and Hotch thinks he might be able to forget that he’s here without his team and the consultation could last a couple more days, and that it’s intensely boring and the locals are less than welcoming. He contemplates the bottle, enjoying the quiet, until a bowl of steaming chowder appears before him, along with thick crusted bread and a spoon. He nods his thanks in silence and digs in, finding that it’s just about perfect- the right texture, hot without being scalding, creamy and delicious. 

By the time he’s done with the bowl and contemplating how acceptable it would be to use his bread to mop up the last scraps, a new bottle hisses open at his elbow. This one’s a dark red brew in a bottle that bears no label, and he can only tell it’s beer by smell; hoppy, with a subtle hint of apples, apricots and honey. 

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Eliot grins, realizes he’s using the smile that usually ends up with someone in his bed, and tones it down immediately. He has at least three reasons not to want that to happen; two of them are away this evening, and the third is wearing an FBI badge at his belt. He shakes his head, gentling his smile into friendliness. 

“You look like you need it. Here, I’ll have one as well,” he pops open a second bottle. “You’re not driving, are you? These are the house speciality, and they pack a punch. My own brew.” 

Hotch’s eyebrows shoot up and he takes a cautious sip, thoughtful as the flavor explodes across his tongue. Rich, dark and complex, he tastes the apples and honey he smelled earlier but also earthier notes, with an oddly bitter aftertaste. He licks his lips and risks another, deeper sip. There was something about the bartender’s smile earlier than felt like an invitation, but it’s not an invitation Hotch is inclined to answer- he has someone waiting for him at home, and besides, he is reasonably sure that a casual one night stand with a potential killer is against some kind of rule. Dave can play at that game, but Hotch most definitely can’t.

“I’m not driving, and this is excellent. You really make it yourself?”

The beer actually _is_ excellent, even if Eliot says so himself. This stranger is the first person outside of Leverage Inc. to taste it, and Eliot basks in the genuine pleasure in the man’s expression. He thinks about how simple pleasures like good food, good drink and good company can make a bad day infinitely better, and remembers too many bad days that had none of those things to improve them. Thus, he resolves to improve one Fed’s day, with simple pleasures. And to do that, he needs to put some cards on the table, take a risk or two. Simple risks. 

“So...What brings a Fed from out of town to my bar?”

Hotch quirks an eyebrow and doesn’t even bother to ask whether it’s that obvious; he knows it is, has been told multiple times that he never looks like anything except an FBI agent, and it makes sense that this man can recognize law enforcement when he sees it, because Hotch is pretty sure he’s either _been_ the law, or on the run from it, and quite possibly both. He’s not going to elaborate on his case, of course, it’s all classified information while the investigation is ongoing, and sensitive even if it wasn’t an active case, and this man...Hell, Hotch can obfuscate with the best of them if he has to, and deflect attention from things he doesn’t want to discuss at least as well as Reid can, so he does. Besides, he’s tired of thinking of the bartender as just ‘the guy’. 

“I was hungry.” The simple yet annoying answer. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Eliot.” 

He has no idea why he gave the Fed his real name, except that here, in his own brewhouse, Eliot doesn’t need to hide. Here he doesn’t need to grift or twist himself into something he isn’t to make other people do what he wants. The bar is his place, his home now, and he feels comfortable here, in his own skin, with his own name, for the first time in decades. He isn’t going to lie about himself in his own home, not even to a Fed. But turnabout is fair play.

“And you, Agent…?”

“Aaron. I’m off duty.”

Well into his second bottle, Hotch is very glad he’s off duty, and even happier not to have to be an agent for one night, not special or in charge of anything. Just a man, far from home, in a bar, with a full stomach and a cool bottle. It’s the closest thing to a vacation he’s had in years. Eliot smirks at him, and Hotch tips his bottle slightly in acknowledgement. They both know what the other is doing, and that makes it okay. For something that’s essentially a game, it feels very, very real. He makes an effort to turn off the profiling part of his brain, but knows it’s a lost cause. He can’t stop profiling any more than Eliot can stop himself from checking out possible exit routes when he enters the room, probably; Hotch notes that he keeps half an eye on the front door at all times, and splits the rest of his attention between the windows, the kitchen door, and Hotch. Even that partial attention feels pretty intense. He goes for the safer topics, to counter the edge of tension that still rests between them. 

“So, tell me about making beer. I’m drinking it, might as well know what went into it.” 

This is something people rarely ask, and Eliot’s grin in reply widens. Parker and Hardison usually shut him up when he starts talking about cooking or brewing, unless Parker’s in the right mood for it, and then she changes the subject pretty quickly, claiming that he uses the same tone of voice talking about food as he does in bed, which distracts her. Aware that she isn’t actually wrong about that, Eliot tries to turn up the enthusiasm and tone down the sheer sensual joy of preparing food and drink. Outside the team, no one asks- not even the bar regulars. Aaron, though- and once a name is given, Eliot tries to stop thinking about his as ‘the Fed’ and see a person instead- asks pertinent questions and seems genuinely interested. Enough so that Eliot feels particularly generous- and interested in turn. 

“Hold that thought.” 

Hotch waits, not holding on to any one thought but allowing his mind to wander without a specific target in mind, until Eliot returns, carrying two more bottles and a plate holding what looks like half a cherry pie. They are the only people in the bar now, the last one having left some cash on the table and left some half an hour earlier- Hotch glances at his watch and is stunned to find it’s close to midnight already. The pie isn’t warm but looks delicious. Cherries aren’t even in season, yet these seem fresh, and the cream piled generously on top is definitely fresh. Against his will, Hotch smiles again, and thinks that he’s probably smiled more tonight than in the entire past month or so. It’s a depressing thought.

“I didn’t even see cherry pie on the menu.” Is all he can think to say; anything else would be too bland, or far too suggestive, and he doesn’t want to suggest anything. 

Eliot shrugs and produces two spoons.

“It’s not on the menu, but if I don’t deal with it tonight I’ll have to throw it out, my partners are away, and eating pie alone is about as bad as drinking alone.” 

Besides, they both need something to soak up the third round of beer, which he cracks open without waiting for invitation or confirmation. 

“Guess it is.” Hotch digs into the pie, which is as good as it looked. After several bites in silence, he adds, “This is the first conversation I’ve had with an adult outside of work or family in four months.” 

The confession hangs in the air, floating on a mild alcoholic buzz flavored with cherries, and Hotch feels his face heat, momentarily mortified that he just blurted that out to a near-stranger, expecting ridicule or an abrupt end to a very enjoyable evening. He is both confused and relieved when Eliot smiles warmly.

“I know how that can be. I hope I’m an improvement on what you usually get, in terms of grown-up conversation?” 

Eliot remembers too well how it is, not having a life outside of work, not talking to anyone who isn’t a mark or a colleague- an uneasy ally at best, an enemy at worse- for weeks or months, never discussing his private life, never sharing thoughts or philosophy or anything that wasn’t practical and on-target. Unlike some people he could name in both his former and current lines of work, Eliot genuinely likes people as a whole, and likes talking to like-minded people. It’s one of the many reasons he flirts- back then, it was just a welcome change of pace from being a killer or a thief, talking to other killers and thieves. It’s better these days; he has Hardison and Parker, and can call Sophie and Nate if he has to, and there are regular patrons at the brewhouse who are something like friends. Aaron nods shortly, silent, and Eliot can see he’s uncomfortable, being so open, and glances away discreetly, not forcing a further intimacy between them, verbal or otherwise, until the other man collects himself. It takes almost the whole of the third bottle before another word is said, and the pie is reduced to some crumbs and leftover smears of cream on the plate. And then Aaron looks at his watch- third time in ten minutes, Eliot’s been counting- and shifts, awkward again. 

“I should really get going. They’ll expect me back at the field office in seven hours or so.” 

They could be here all night, and the last thing Hotch actually wants right now is to go back to his chill and dreary motel room, but if he stays any longer or gets any closer to drunk, he might do something stupid, and this was a bad time for stupidity. He forces himself to stand, and doesn’t hold the bar for support out of sheer stubbornness. Those last two beers were stronger than he thought, clearly, even absorbed by pie and chowder; Hotch was no lightweight, but he was tired and not that used to drinking beer anymore. As Eliot said, eating pie and drinking beer were both things better done in company, and he hasn’t had much time for company recently. Eliot, who’s looking at him like he can read Hotch’s mind, but says only,

“If you’re still around tomorrow night you should come by, I’ll save you some of the special.”

Tomorrow’s special is shepherd’s pie, and Eliot knows it’ll be good because it usually is. It’s an old family recipe he got off an Irish mercenary, former IRA, in Africa, and as long as the meat was good and the red wine or dark stout added the depth of flavor, it rarely failed. He smiles again, aiming for an invitation without the sexual overtones, and thinks he just about manages it. Aaron smiles back, a little guarded and a lot tired again, and Eliot knows he won’t come, even if he’s still there the following night. 

“I just might. And if you’re ever around DC, give me a call. I’ll show you where we go for local micro-brews.” 

Hotch slides his card across the bar along with a 50 dollar note, and in a way this feels like the biggest risk he’s taken so far this evening, giving this man his full name, his contact details. In doing so, he’s risking- or allowing- a repeat of tonight, and simple pleasures, like simple risks, can be addictive. He knows- is almost sure- that Eliot would never take him up on the offer, and that if he ever gets that call, it won’t be for a beer, but he leaves the possibility of it open, anyway. It’s a simple risk still, but one that could get complicated, fast. Eliot sweeps both money and card away under the bar, and doesn’t insult Hotch by trying to give him change or not charge him at all- or by actually adding up the bill, which Hotch thinks might be higher than fifty, with all those speciality beers. He gathers his wits and willpower in preparation for the walk to his hotel. 

“Call you a taxi?”

Special Agent in Charge Aaron Hotchner, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Very interesting. Eliot makes a mental note to have Hardison put together a file on him tomorrow. He could be a useful contact, and besides, he’s good drinking company, and Eliot has too few drinking buddies left to give a potential one up only because they have the breadth of the country between them.

“Thanks, but I’ll walk. It’s not far and I need to clear my head anyway.”

Maybe he _will_ come in tomorrow after all. Simple pleasures were too few and far between to ignore, if he has the chance to indulge in them. But maybe he won’t. 

“Sure. Was nice meeting you, Aaron.”

They walk to the door together, Eliot a step and a half behind. If pressed, he’d be willing to admit that he’s putting off having to face the empty bar and closing things up here, but there’s only so long he can draw it out without things getting awkward. 

“Likewise, Eliot. I- I had a really nice evening.”

“Me too.”

They don’t shake hands as they part. Touching would be far more than a simple pleasure, and a much greater risk. But the memory lingers, and warms Hotch through the dull days that follow, before his return to DC.

He never does return to try the special, but month later, a carefully padded box containing a selection of East-Coast micro-brewed beers is hand-delivered to Eliot’s door. His smile is warm and delighted, and the others give him odd and jealous looks, but he doesn’t care. Some risks are totally worth it.


End file.
